


Heat Wave

by LadyAnneNeville



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Danger, Gen, Heat Stroke, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAnneNeville/pseuds/LadyAnneNeville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During one of the most vivid heat waves in memory, one of the boys finds himself losing hope trapped in a cell that resembles an oven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Wave

**Author's Note:**

> This story has previously been published on Fanfiction.net under my pen name there ArcAngel-Liberty4all.

He was unsure how long he had been here, blindfolded in a windowless hut, his arms and legs bound tightly together and cramping from the bent position he had been forced into, the hut in truth not being much larger than a wedding chest. He could sit up, he reflected, push his lower back into the wall and almost straighten his legs, but then his back would be awkwardly curved over his lower body, his neck and shoulders straining uncomfortably against the roof of the chamber.

The air was hot and dry, and he had taken to keeping his mouth and eyes closed as much as possible in an attempt to retain what little moisture was left in him. How many days had it been since he had last been given water? Two? More? It couldn't possibly be more than three, he reasoned, men died after three days without water and it was hot. He had stopped sweating a while ago and his entire body ached. He fought the urge to vomit when it recurred for what felt like the hundredth time. It was not a good idea to lose anymore liquid, and besides the smell would make a difficult situation unbearable.

He was pretty sure that his captors had moved on now, he remembered the glimpses he'd gotten of the temporary camp when he had been brought through and then on the two subsequent times he had been extracted from the oven they were keeping him in to ask questions.

It was one of the most intense heat waves that Aramis had known since moving north to Paris and the country was parched. Greenery fading into brown and by royal decree most of the water collected went into irrigating the crops to avoid a shortage come winter.

As much of the musketeers work involved standing still for hours on end on parade and training outdoors in the courtyard Treville had done what he could to protect his men from the thick heat; arranging training to take place in the early morning and evening; and halving the length of Parade shifts: This of course meant that everyone had to pull twice as many shifts but at least they were a bearable length.

It had been a relief when Treville had called the four of them into his office one morning and sent them off to deliver a confidential message to a visiting Duke from Spain. It was a few hours ride out from Paris, and while they weren't in any particular hurry, they were to wait for a reply and return that day, rather than stay the night.

The first part had gone off without a hitch, the group had arrived mid morning and then spent a pleasant couple of hours lazing around in the leafy shade of an orchard on the estate currently housing the duke before setting off for Paris about three in the afternoon. It was on the trip back that the trouble started. Apparently the letters they were delivering were of some importance for the future diplomatic relations between France and England, something that Spain was of a mind to stop.

Not that it had been immediately obvious that they were Spanish. The attack had come quickly catching the group completely unaware. He had been caught off guard, pulled from his horse, distracted by the gunshot that had a significant amount of blood now covering their gascon's chest, the boy being steadied by Porthos, looking both worried and dangerous as he steadied the boy with one hand and brandished a pistol in the other.

He had called for them to run, it was an obvious tactical decision, he was outnumbered on the ground and difficult to get to, D'Artagnan was injured and in reach but in desperate need of medical attention. Aramis had watched the indecision in Athos's eyes before Athos gave the order and the other three horses turned tail and ran.

The attackers weren't fighting to kill, but without the support of his brothers Aramis was quickly overwhelmed and captured.

He no longer knew how long ago the skirmish had taken place. He had discovered that his captors were Spanish, and had gleaned far more than they realised by listening intently to conversations that they did not realise he understood. Twice he had been brought out of the oven where they were keeping him. Twice he had been interrogated about the contents of the letter they had failed to obtain, contents that Aramis was not aware of, and both times the questions and answers had been interspersed with solid punches to his torso. 

It was a good reason not to move too much. Lack of water was a horrible way to die but still preferable to drowning in his own blood while parched with thirst.

He thinks they brought him water once a day while they were in camp, but he doesn't know, nor did he think to count how many times they brought him water. He doesn't think that the camp was hugely far from where the battle happened but has started to mistrust that impression. His brothers have not found him yet, they will be looking, he has no doubt of that, but by his reckoning of two days without water, his oven will soon become his coffin and if they don't find him soon, what they find will be a body.

He thinks he is losing time, slipping in and out of sleep and confusion, wondering multiple times a day where he is before he remembers, but he is in the dark, he does not know. He has no strength or moisture left to speak but in his mind he prays. He prays for the Queen and for the Dauphin, his precious son to whom he can never be a father. He prays for his parents, and his sisters and all his little nieces and nephews who barely know the uncle who turns up a couple of times a year with tall tales and presents. He prays for Treville, who will shoulder the blame for this because he is a good man and a responsible captain, as he has shouldered some of the blame for every man he has lost under his command since Aramis first met him. He owes his captain so much, he recruited him for the brand new Musketeers regiment nearly a decade ago, and through placing him with first Porthos and then the two of them with Athos, Treville had gifted Aramis with the best friends and truest brothers he had ever known.

Most of all he prayed for his brothers, for D'Artagnan who was grievously hurt but had so much potential, and for Athos and Porthos, who had saved him from himself more times than he could count. He prayed for them to find him, but knowing that his time was running short he prayed for them not to take his loss too painfully, for them to take strength in each other and carry on should he not live to see them again.

The next time he woke everything was heavier and even more confused, he could barely lift his head and his tongue felt so swollen it was at the point of bursting out of his mouth. There were voices though, voices and movement, men searching the camp. Had he had enough liquid left in his body he would have wept tears of relief.

He waited. They would find him. He waited longer, it was only a matter of time before they opened the box, before he was free. The movement stilled and voices quietened. 

They were leaving, Aramis realised. Of course no sane person would think the heavy storage case he was kept inside would contain a person and so they had missed him. 

He could not speak, could not shout. Instead he drew his knees up further into his chest and kicked out at the edge of the box. The sound was weak even to his ears, but it left him limp and panting with exhaustion. He lay there, trying to gather the strength to try again, he would have to be louder this time, they hadn't heard him and he refused to die when rescue was so close. Taking as deep a breath as his ribs allowed he drew his knees up one more time and pushed all his strength into another kick. As his legs fell limply to the floor of the crate once again, he realised that he would not have the strength to try again, no matter how much he wished to.

“You don't think?” They wouldn't be that cruel...” Porthos's voice was hurt, uncertain with a low burning undertone of fury but it was close. They had heard him. Had Aramis had the breath he might have let out a sob of relief. There was a short pause before:

“I'll find a crowbar” Athos's voice said, then more footsteps.

When the light came it was painful even against his closed eyelids but he no longer had the strength to screw his face up in protest. 

“Aramis.” He heard someone breath and then there were arms about his shoulders lifting him free of his prison and he was vaguely aware of being lain on someone's lap, a couple of fingers pressed frantically against his neck, searching for a pulse before coming to a stop.

“Oh God no, please, please no!” Porthos sounded so desperate, so devastated that Aramis desperately wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he lacked the strength to even open his eyes and could do nothing.

“He's not dead, Porthos, but he will be very soon unless we can get some water in him and cool him down.” Athos's voice was calm and reassuring, steady and dependable, but Aramis could feel the way his brothers hand was trembling on his neck and did not mistake that control for lack of fear.

He felt wet fingers sliding over his lips a couple of times, trying to lend them enough moisture to crack them open. At last they did so and the mouth of a water skin was gently pressed against them, a hand supporting the back of his head as they trickled water into his mouth. He couldn't swallow though, couldn't accept it and the water bubbled back up past his lips and dribbled down his chin.

“Stop it you're choking him!”

“You think I can't see that, he won't swallow!” An edge of panic had now managed to creep into Athos's voice and Aramis realised that even with his brothers here, he may still lose his life.

“If you massage his throat while he drinks it might help him to swallow?”

Aramis's head was tilted up again the water skin once again pressed against his lips but this time a large familiar hand was gently massaging his throat rubbing against his adams apple.

The first swallow was very painful, and it felt like shards of glass screeching down his throat, but after the first one a second was induced and suddenly it was like his body remembered and he was greedily gulping down the water in his desperation to slake his thirst. 

The water skin was taken away to soon and a desperate little moan escaped his throat.

The world spun for a moment and Aramis realised that he was being carried, held against someone's chest, his head resting on their shoulder. On Porthos's shoulder he realised, Porthos was carrying him.  
“What are you doing?” Athos asked.

“We need to cool him down, there's a river over that direction and it seems to me that that's the best way to do it.” Aramis could feel Porthos's voice rumbling in his chest and his friend's strength seemed comforting to him in his weakened state. 

The river was almost painfully cold at first as he floated, arms supporting his back, his head so that he didn't slip under the surface, but the shock of it soon faded into a pleasant coolness that he was reluctant to leave, safely held between his brothers, his trust in them absolute and whole he let his awareness slip away.

When he woke again he was shivering slightly, someone rolling the wet sheet covering him off his body. A sharp pain shot through his temple but he found that he was able to move his head slightly. His entire body ached and part of him longed to slip back into the comforting oblivion of sleep once again. Then the hands froze and the sheet was quickly pushed to the side.

“Athos, I think he's waking up. Aramis! Aramis can you open your eyes?” Porthos's voice was insistent and the way he was squeezing his hand even more so and so Aramis cracked open his eyes and was able to see Porthos's scarred anxious face looking back into his. 

Aramis tried to smile but ended up with a little bit of a grimace as the pain in his head spiked again and he closed his eyes with a moan.

“Here.” A water skin was placed between his lips and a hand supported the back of his head, as he sipped the water Aramis opened his eyes once more, and when he had had his fill he nodded slightly, and Porthos withdrew the water skin.

“You had us worried, Aramis. I'd rather it not happen again.” Athos had appeared on Aramis's other side and was looking into Aramis's face, Athos's relief evident, at least to those who knew him well. Aramis swallowed heavily, testing out the feel of his mouth before he attempted to speak for the first time in several days.

“How long?” He croaked.

“The skirmish was ten days ago, we couldn't find where they'd taken you. They were good at covering their tracks, then quite by accident we came across their camp yesterday, that's when we found you. You were stubbornly refusing to wake up, it's been a day and a half now.” Athos's report was short and too the point.

“We thought we were too late, when we found you in that storage crate.” Porthos's voice held strong, but remembering the other man's fear, Aramis squeezed his hand, tightly. Remembering the skirmish fear rushed back into his own heart.

“D'Artagnan, is he?” Aramis could not quite finish the question.

“He's fine, he's broken his collarbone and lost a good deal of blood which will put him out of action for a few months, but there's no infection and being himself, he is stubbornly refusing to understand why a broken collarbone should mean that he cannot help search for you.” The fear left Aramis as quickly as it arrived.

“If you're still worried about him you can keep him company on bed rest while those ribs heal up.” Aramis felt like he should make some kind of comment, but even this short conversation left him exhausted. He rested his head back and turned his attention to himself, taking stock of his body, it was then he realised.

“Am I naked?” he asked, eyeing his friends suspiciously. Porthos turned slightly pink.

“We've been keeping you covered with wet sheets, to bring your temperature down, but you started to shiver. I was in the process of changing the sheet for something dry when you decided to return to the land of the living.” It was not quite an apology, but served as an explanation.

“Peace my friend, I would however appreciate something to cover my modesty, now.” Aramis said smirking slightly. 

“What modesty?” Athos inquired dryly.

“I am unashamed of my body brother, but I do prefer the audience to have a few more curves when I show it off so completely.” Aramis stated, winking.

“Well there's gratitude for saving his life.” Porthos remarked.

Aramis smiled and closed his eyes as sleep took him once more. He had survived, his prayers were answered. His brother's lived and by the grace of god so did he.

**Author's Note:**

> Sneaky self promotion.
> 
> I have started a just for fun fanfiction writing competition over at fanfiction.net but if you want to enter it is also valid to publish the stories over here at A03. 
> 
> The brief is a 1000-5000 word story in response to the prompt "Brotherhood" and all the relevant information for either entering or judging is available in this forum here:
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/topic/183263/139586396/1/Brotherhood-03-September-to-03-October
> 
> If you want to enter but do not have a fanfiction.net account you can gift the story to me on this site and I will post the relevant information for the entry to be valid over at the forum for you.xx


End file.
